I moved forward and began to circle the creature, which didn’t move. I was, nevertheless, trembling.
The shadows continued to melt, and the shape of the creature became more apparent.
“Quell,” came the whisper again. “That is my name. I have come a long way, some ten million miles and five light-years. Here on your world, judging by your size, I’d say your god has just one half-cracked eye awake. On our world, God jumped with a shout of creation, thus our great height.”
And the creature stood, even taller.
I stared at the face and said, “You—your mouth hardly moves.”
The thing named Quell replied, “But my thoughts move as do yours. So,” said the creature, “tell me, Jack, would you slay the giant?”
“I—” I stammered.
“I read the beanstalk in your mind.”
“Damn!” I cried. “Forgive me,” I said. “This is my first meeting with a telepath.”
“Let me save you from damnation,” said my roommate. “Once more, my name is Quell. And yours?”
“You know my name,” I said. “You read minds.”
“But out of politeness,” Quell replied, “I pretend otherwise.”
The great creature reached down with one of his appendages. I put forward my hand, and we touched.
“Ishmael Hunnicut Jones,” I said.
“Well,” said Quell. “That name has traveled out of your Bible and into this age of space.”
“Which is much the way you’ve come,” I said.
“Five light-years off,” said Quell. “I was in deep freeze for five whole years, as cold as death. I slept the time away. It is good to be awake again. Am I not strange?”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” said Quell, with something like a laugh. “If thoughts fly, I catch them. That must be strange to you. And you must also be thinking that I have too many eyes, too many ears, far too many fingers, greenish skin—certainly strange. And yet I look at you and see that you have only two eyes, two tiny ears, five little fingers on each of only two hands. So then we are both—look at us—quite amusing. And both, finally…human.”
“Yes,” I said, seeing the truth in this. “Oh yes, that is human.”
Quell was provoked to some sort of humor, for he went on and said, “So now, Ishmael, shall I grind your bone to make my bread, or shall we be friends?”
I flinched, prepared to back off, but I caught myself and laughed instead, and said, “Friends, yes friends, I think.”
And Quell repeated, “Friends.”
Later we left our cubicle and went exploring, down into the lower levels of the immense academy.
We walked among the philosophical robots who sat silhouetted among firefly lights to speak in tongues from ancient times.
“Plato,” I said. “Aristotle,” I went on. “Behold us. What do you see?”
And the Plato robot said, “Two terrible and fine, ugly and beautiful children of nature.”
And Quell asked, “Ah, but what is nature?”
Socrates answered, sparks showering, “God surprising himself with odd miracles of flesh.”
And Aristotle, a strange little plastic robot, continued: “And theirs is nothing odder or miraculous, then.”
Quell reached out and touched my forehead with one of his long, finely tufted finger-legs and said, “Ishmael.”
I responded warmly, and touched the downy chest of my new friend. “Quell, from the far islands of the great Andromeda Nebula. Quell.”
“We shall study together,” said Quell.
“Listen together, learn together, explore together,” I added.
And we did indeed listen to the voice of our robot philosopher teachers, who continued to speak in tongues various and strange during the next days, weeks, and months of our training. No one told us where we’d be going, what would be asked of us, or how long we would remain Earth-bound in these vast caverns of learning.
But finally the day came that the robot instructors’ talk, their babble, their murmurs, faded. We arrived at the lecture hall one morning and everything was still. On the video screen were our names, and the words, “Orders received. Report for duty.”
Quell observed, “Our studies appear to be at an end.”
“If so,” I said, “our life begins. Let us find our rocket.”
We returned to our room, where our orders were awaiting us. We collected our gear and, donning our jet-packs, rose into the air and flew. The clouds gave way, the birds parted, and at last we landed at the great launching area of Cape Kennedy. We were surrounded by skyscraper gantries, gleaming rockets, the persistent buzz of intense activity.
I stared around me, stunned by the immense size of it all.
“Look, Quell, there, and there! Rockets! At least two dozen. Listen to the names: Apollo 149, Mercury 77, Jupiter 215. And there…”
Quell finished for me. “The Cetus 7.”
I stared at the gleaming cylinder, towering above all the other craft. “The largest interstellar ship ever built,” I said, in awe.
Quell mused, “I wonder if, in their dreams, your Bach and Beethoven ever built such as these?”
A voice broke our reverie. “They did, oh yes they did.”
We turned to find an old man in a faded astronaut’s suit emerging from the shadow of a gangway. He spoke, saying simply, “Hello, friends.”
Quell must have scanned the stranger’s mind, for he replied, “We are no friends of yours.”
The old man chuckled mirthlessly and continued. “You’re quick to judge me, telepath. Be quicker still. Is the Cetus 7 to be your ship?”
“It is,” I replied.
The old man groaned. “Ah, you tread the rim of the Abyss. Pull back, if you know what’s good for you.”
Quell uttered a curse from his far world and pulled at my elbow. “Let’s go, Ishmael. No need to listen to this one’s false warnings.”
The old man pursued us. “You, young man, do you know that spaceship’s captain?”
“Not eye to eye,” I said, turning back, curious.
“Eye to eye! My God, you’ve touched the nerve. For when you meet him, do not look into his eyes. Be warned—he has none.”
“None?” I asked. “Blind?”
“No, stricken’s more the word. Burnt blind in space some years ago. Ah, but you knew it,” the old man said, turning to Quell.
“No, I did not,” said Quell, tugging at my arm again. “And we’ll hear no more from you.”
But the old man would not be silenced. “You’ve already heard it, my friend, for you have just read the whole inside of my mind. You’ve seen. Now tell your young friend what you’ve learned. Tell him what’s in store.”
I shook off Quell’s hand and stood waiting.
The old astronaut came closer and spoke very clearly. “What burnt the captain blind? Where? When? How? You may well ask. Was he a priest of space, chasing God, and God spun and struck darkness at him in one blow? Is your captain all in one smooth piece, or do the ragged edges show where he was sewn back up? Does midnight still peek out through those raw holes the doctors could not mend? Was he born an albino, or did terror bleach him like a terrible snow?”
I turned to look at Quell to see how he was taking all this, and the immense shadow that was Quell trembled in the sunlight but would not give answer.
The old astronaut, triumphant, moved yet closer.
“Now hear this. Aboard that ship, far out in space, there’ll come a time when you see land—a world on the horizon—where there is no land, find time where there is no time; when ancient kings will reflesh their bones and reseat their crowns. Then, oh then, ship, ship’s captain, ship’s men, all, all will be destroyed! All save one.”
My hands were fists. I stepped toward the old man in anger, but he backed off to finish.
“Believe me. The Cetus 7 is no fair ship. It is its captain’s. And the captain is forever lost.” And finally he turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” I cried. “Hold on. What is your name?”
The old man paused, as if searching for an answer.
“Elijah. Name’s Elijah. Good morning to you, friends, morning.”
He spread his arms and, a moment later, where he had been was darkness.
Quell and I stood, abandoned, as a swift shadow passed over us, and the voice came one more time from above, fading, “Morning, morning.”
Before either of us could say a word, there came an immense sound of thunder as a rocket, perhaps five miles distant, took off shuddering, filling the sky with color; the crimson and white flashes of ascension. As the sound receded, we became aware of sudden activity around us—the stirrings of technicians and robots and astronauts, the sounds of radios and electronic pulses, the shadows of rockets connecting to gantries, ready to lift into the universe.
Quell at last said, “It’s time to go. Our ship is waiting. Ishmael, attend, we must aboard.”
And so we continued on to the Cetus 7.
Chapter 2
Oh, the logistics of the rocket. Computerize the billion and one decisions. Ten thousand nursing bottles filled with super-homogenized gunk for space children. Fresh air produced by glass-enclosed botanical gardens. Sweat recycled into sweet water by machines.
Ring all the bells and klaxons. Flash the lights and prepare the thunders. Men and women run.
Quell and I stood by the gantry, staring up at the giant ship. It had been a week since our strange encounter with Elijah, seven days filled with intense activity as the Cetus 7 crew, of which we were now members, prepared the ship for voyage.
“Quell,” I said, “at no time in the last week, in all the rush and work, upon or around the ship, have we seen—blind or otherwise—the prophesied captain of our ship.”
Quell shut his yes and cocked his strange head.
“Him,” he whispered.
“What?” I urged. “What?”
Quell murmured, “He is near.” And he turned and pointed up at the gantry. Its elevator was slowly rising and within the cage we saw a lone, dark
